The Promise - By Danielle Steel Page 0,7
down next to her with a small sigh and stretched his legs as Mattie arrived with the coffee. “Thank you, Mattie.”
“You're welcome, Mr. Hillyard.” She smiled at him as warmly as she always did. He was always so pleasant to her, as though he hated to bother her, not like … “Will there be anything else, madam?”
“No. As a matter of fact … Michael, do you want to take that into the library?”
“All right.” Maybe it would be easier to talk in there. His mother's dining room had always reminded him of ballrooms he had seen in ancestral homes. It was not conducive to intimate conversation, and certainly not to gentle persuasion. He stood up and followed his mother out of the room, down three thickly carpeted steps, and into the library immediately to their left. There was a splendid view of Fifth Avenue and a comfortable chunk of Central Park, but there was also a warm fireplace and two walls lined with books. The fourth wall was dominated by a portrait of Michael's father, but it was one he liked, one in which his father looked warm—like someone you'd want to know. As a small boy he had come to look at that portrait at times, and to “talk” aloud to his father. His mother had found him that way once, and told him it was an absurd thing to do. But later he had seen her crying in that room, and staring at the portrait as he had.
His mother ensconced herself in her usual place, in a Louis XV chair covered in beige damask and facing the fireplace. Tonight her dress was almost the same color, and for a moment, as the firelight glowed, Michael thought her almost beautiful. She had been once, and not so long ago. Now she was fifty-seven. Michael had been born when she was thirty-three. She hadn't had time for children before that. And she had been very beautiful then. She had had the same rich honey-blonde hair that Michael had, but now it was graying, and the life in her face had faded. It had been replaced by other things. Mostly the business. And the once cornflower-blue eyes looked almost gray now. As though winter had finally come.
“I have the feeling that you came down here tonight to speak to me about something important, Michael. Is anything the matter?” Had he gotten someone pregnant? Smashed up his car? Hurt someone? Nothing was irreparable, of course, as long as he told her. She was glad he had come down.
“No, nothing's the matter. But there is something I want to discuss with you.” Wrong. He cringed almost visibly at his own words. “Discuss.” He should have said there was something he wanted to tell her, not discuss with her. Damn. “I thought it was about time we were honest with each other.”
“You make it sound as though we usually aren't.”
“About some things we aren't” His whole body was tense now, and he was leaning forward in his chair, conscious of his father looking over his shoulder. “We aren't honest about Nancy, Mother.”
“Nancy?” She sounded blank, and suddenly he wanted to jump up and slap her. He hated the way she said her name. Like one of the servants.
“Nancy McAllister. My friend.”
“Oh, yes.” There was an interminable pause as she shifted the tiny vermeil and enamel spoon on the saucer of her demitasse cup. “And in what way are we not honest about Nancy?” Her eyes were veiled by a sheet of gray ice.
“You try to pretend that she doesn't exist. And I try not to get you upset about it. But the fact is, Mother … I'm going to marry her.” He took another breath and sat back in his chair. “In two weeks.”
“I see.” Marion Hillyard was perfectly still. Her eyes did not move, nor her hands, nor her face. Nothing. “And may I ask why? Is she pregnant?”
“Of course not.”
“How fortunate. Then why, may I ask; are you marrying her? And why in two weeks?”
“Because I graduate then, because I'm moving to New York then, because I start work then. Because it makes sense.”
“To whom?” The ice was hardening, and one leg crossed carefully over the other with the slippery sound of silk. Michael felt uncomfortable under the constancy of her gaze. She hadn't shifted her eyes once. As in business, she was ruthless. She could make any man squirm, and eventually break.
“It makes sense to us, Mother.”
“Well, not to me. We've